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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23635780">sutures</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto'>impossiblepluto</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>MacGyver (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Cairo Day 2020, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Jack Dalton (MacGyver 2016), Stitches</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:40:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,100</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23635780</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Unfortunately, most accidents occur at home.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jack Dalton &amp; Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>118</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>sutures</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This two stories in one day thing isn't going to happen again. Pluto just got too excited about Cairo Day and Mac + Jack feels. And since Jack got whumped today, it's only fair that Mac also gets whumped today.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Mac rubs his hands together as he stares at the shelves in his garage. He knows he has just the right piece from an old microwave he took apart years ago. If he could just figure out where he stuck it. He takes a step down the length of the garage. Eyes scanning the shelves like he’s looking for a book at the library and can only remember that the cover was blue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He frowns, licking his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He squints. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>That might be it. Tucked on the second from the top shelf. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches up, straining on his toes, extending his grasp. He sighs in frustration as it remains stubbornly out of reach and should probably pull out a ladder. But that’s currently part of a scaffold on the deck and he doesn’t want to disassemble that whole thing just for this one tiny piece. It’d be less of a hassle to take the current working microwave apart and run out to buy a new appliance before Bozer found out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stretches his arm out again. Fingertips brushing… just a little further… he tries to ease it out of the stack like a precariously placed wooden block in a Jenga game.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears it a second before he realizes what’s happening. The long, slow squeak. Mac throws up his other hand and starts backpedaling. He’s not fast enough. The top two racks of the shelving unit crumbling. The contents tumbling to the ground. Dumping on top of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives a shout, first of surprise and then of pain. Throwing himself backward, stumbling out of the debris hurtling down to the ground. A haze of dust swirling around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac coughs leaning against the workbench near the opposite wall, waving away the dust, trying to clear it. Staring in dismay at the mess scattered across the garage floor. Then hissing as pain erupts in his arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a thump in the kitchen and the door to the garage flies open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack bursts through, gun drawn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mac!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He waves a hand at Jack, still coughing against the dust coating his throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack holsters his gun, picking his way across the garage. “What happened? I’d ask if a bomb went off in here, but that’s actually a possibility.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac blinks hard. Then sneezes. “I was looking for a coil and a magnetron antenna. I thought I had what I needed out here, but…” he gestures to the mess. “It’s somewhere in there. I think.” He winces as the movement causes his arm to burn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re bleeding, hoss,” Jack captures Mac’s arm, pulling back the sleeve. He winces in commiseration as he examines the several deep gashes. “This doesn’t look good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac reaches for the deepest cut. Blood dripping down his arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, don’t touch it. Your hands are dirty. Let’s get you inside and get a look at this,” Jack continues supporting the injured limb as he leads Mac inside and down the hall to the bathroom where the first aid kit is kept. He’s seriously considered sticking another one in the kitchen and might as well put one in the garage and on the deck as well so he doesn’t have to go so far next time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack helps Mac ease the flannel button-down off his shoulders, leaving him in a gray t-shirt. He parks Mac on the closed lid of the toilet as he starts cleaning away the blood smeared against his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac flinches at his touch. Jack murmurs quiet words, easing him into a tranquil hush.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“These are pretty deep, kiddo. I don’t know that we can risk taking care of them here,” Jack frowns as blood continues running down his arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve given me stitches before, Jack,” Mac argues.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, in exigent circumstances.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac opens his mouth to correct Jack’s Daltonism, then stops. “Well, technically, the actual definition of that word works too, but…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, if we’re in the field, and you’re bleeding out, I’ll be the best damn seamstress you’ve ever seen. But we got a nice private medical facility all to ourselves. And I’m not comfortable stitching up the one over your elbow. I don’t want you to scar up and lose mobility.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac leans over to study the wound and he gets a little lightheaded when he thinks he can see bone. He forces himself to take a deep breath and push aside the veil that drops over his vision. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All those dirty tools and parts in the garage. I don’t think we should play around with that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still trying to keep the dizziness at bay, he is not going to pass out and have Jack freak out more, he nods in reluctant agreement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack carefully wraps his arm up, staunching the bleeding. “Keep pressure on that, okay, hoss?” He instructs, giving Mac a job to keep him focused. He doesn’t like the decidedly pale hue his partner has taken on. Or the beads of sweat along his forehead. Or the way he sways for a moment when he stands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He keeps a firm hand on Mac’s back, ready to intervene if he stumbles, guiding him out to the GTO. He rolls down the windows, keeping air flowing against Mac’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Takes some deep breaths,” Jack instructs, hoping that will help clear some of the cobwebs taking up residence in Mac’s brain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac rests his head against the seat, pulling in deep inhales through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. Focusing on the rhythmic rocking of the car, the fresh breeze against his skin, and Jack’s hypnotically calm voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks he might have dozed off in the car because the next thing he knows he’s opening his eyes to Jack’s concerned face and hand on his shoulder. He guides Mac back to the exam room, helping Mac onto the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor quickly examines him for any signs of a concussion or other injuries before unwrapping the bandage around his arm. Poking and prodding, measuring the depth and assessing for any additional damage to his limb. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac carefully avoids looking at the appendage again. He doesn’t need a repeat performance of the lightheadedness. When given the choice, he opts to lay down. Closing his eyes against the burn as they wash out his wounds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he feels the sting of lidocaine injected around the first cut, and the gentle pull easing the edges together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns his head, planning on counting ceiling tiles as a distraction when his eyes find Jack’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You doing, okay, kid?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Mac breathes, tensing at the first pierce of the needle against his skin. Ignoring the sickening feeling of the stitches passing through his flesh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac bites his lip. The lidocaine is helping, but the wounds are deep, most of them requiring multiple layers of stitching to help them heal right. He closes his eyes when he feels tears burning, embarrassed by them, throwing an arm over his eyes. He’s held it together for worse injuries. Been more stoic through deeper pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack’s hand brushes through his hair, scratching along his scalp in a soothing motion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac moves his arm and opens his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just relax,” Jack shushes. “Keep those eyes closed. It’ll be over soon.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac breathes in time with Jack, with the hand petting his head. He feels himself drifting. Relaxing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A particularly painful stitch breaks the pattern, his breath hitching, his arm flies to his side, gripping the edge of the table, and he loses his rhythm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack’s hand finds his. He leans in closer and whispers in his ear. “You’re doing good, kid. Almost done. Just hang on.” His hand continues its back and forth motion in his hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, that’s it. All done.” the doctor says a few more minutes later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac breathes a sigh of relief and opens his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack holds out his hand, taking Mac’s good arm and hauling him to sit up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good boy,” he praises, patting Mac’s shoulder. He shuffles a bit, looking over at the doctor. “So, uh, anything else that we need here? Or are we good? Can we blow this popsicle stand?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just one more thing,” the doctor’s words as he scrolls through Mac’s electronic health record, causes Jack’s face to fall in disappointment and realization. “You said this was from equipment and tools falling in the garage?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac’s face screws up. “Yeah,” he reluctantly admits, he knows where this is going. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then to be safe, you probably need a tetanus shot. It’s been a few years since your last booster.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Swallowing his disappointment, Mac agrees. He remains sitting on the exam table as the doc leaves, resisting the urge to jump off and follow him out. Waiting for the nurse to come give him his shot and wishing they would just hurry up and get it over with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack pats his knee. “Almost done,” he reassures again. Hoping this time he’s right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac gives a gloomy nod. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, kid, wish I could do something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s… fine. Nothing you could have done,” Mac peers down at his arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got about a hundred and eight stitches.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac looks up in surprise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I sort of lost count,” Jack winces. “And I thought you were a few years out on your last tetanus shot but I was hoping that maybe you could squeak by.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hums. It shouldn’t surprise him. This is Jack. He pays attention to anything that impacts Mac’s life or his wellbeing. He keeps track of things like Mac’s appetite or the number of stitches placed in his skin. Knows his first, second, and third favorite foods, desserts, and bagel preferences. He remembers things like birthdays, and anniversaries, and vaccination schedules. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack is always attentive to his needs. That’s how Jack shows that he cares.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s how Jack demonstrates love. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Jack winces in commiseration as the nurse rolls up Mac’s sleeve and cleans his upper arm. Mac turns away trying to keep his muscles relaxed. He still flinches when the needle pierces his skin. He catches his lip between his teeth, raising his eyebrows as the sting grows. A moment later the nurse is discarding the used needle in the sharps container.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, are we done?” Jack asks hopefully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, you’re done. Keep the stitches clean and dry. Watch for any redness, warmth, swelling, or discharge. Or if you spike a temperature,” she reminds them of the too familiar instructions holding out Mac’s discharge paperwork, which Jack snatches up, perusing quietly before folding them and sticking them in his pocket.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac hops off the table and leads the way out of the building.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack makes a phone call, ordering takeout from their favorite Indian restaurant, picking it up on the drive home. Mac stays quiet in the passenger seat and Jack can tell that he’s hurting, even if he won’t admit it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They head for the deck when they arrive home. The mess in the garage and the unfinished project in the living room is a problem for another day. Mac rolls his shoulders, both arms feeling stiff and sore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack opens the take out containers, delicious smells wafting across the deck and he hopes it’s enough to tempt Mac’s appetite. The kid gets a little cranky after he needs medical attention and his appetite is a forfeit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He divides the offering between plates, making sure that Mac’s is tastefully arranged - not too full that he’ll feel overwhelmed by it - and delivers it to Mac’s chair with a flourish.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mac chuckles. “Thanks, Jack.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does monsieur require anything else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, for you to never attempt a French accent again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My French is flawless.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It clashes with your southern drawl,” Mac impersonates.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe I’m from South France.” Jack protests, covertly studying Mac as he rolls his eyes and begins picking at his food.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few bites, Mac speaks. “What I meant was, thank you for sticking around with me. At Medical. You could have sent me back myself and stayed in the waiting room.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When have I ever done that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never,” Mac huffs. “I just… I don’t know why the stitches and stuff bothered me so much this time, but I’m glad that you were there.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that’s a good thing, kiddo,” Jack starts reaching for his shoulder, then adjusts his trajectory, not wanting to cause Mac any more pain, and smooths his hand through Mac’s hair. “Cause if you haven’t figured it out yet, I'm not ever planning on being anywhere else.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And if you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m glad about that. Thanks for…” Mac swallows. “Thanks for always taking care of me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s nothing else I’d rather do.” </span>
</p>
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